


Wilde Life

by Venturous



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, it could have happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:31:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5236070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venturous/pseuds/Venturous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Oscar Wilde is imprisoned, Holmes begins to act strangely</p><p>"The love that dare not speak its name"<br/>is that deep spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect.<br/>There is nothing unnatural about it.<br/>That it should be so, the world does not understand.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>~ Oscar Wilde, excerpted from his testimony at his trial for gross indecency</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wilde Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mundungus42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mundungus42/gifts).



> 1\. Very big squishy hugs and grateful thanks to [personal profile] tjs_whatnot , [personal profile] gingertart50 and [personal profile] inamac , all of whom helped make this readable.
> 
> 2\. This is my first attempt at a victorian era Holmes, and is very much colored by Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke's performances as well as ACD.
> 
> 3\. I also read a good deal of Mr. Wilde in the process, and am grateful for the chance to enhance my education. If you haven't read De Profundus, check it out, as it will break your heart.
> 
> 4\. My love of Inspector Lewis spawned the Oxford connection idea.

Rain fell straight to earth, in sheets, not unlike the damp curtains that hung limply in the sitting room windows. Though it was mid afternoon in spring, the light was indistinguishable as day or night. Watson lowered his newspaper and sat upright with surprise . “Holmes, have you heard? The playwright Oscar Wilde is detained at Holloway prison awaiting trial.”

The detective looked up from his book and refocused on his friend. “Who?” the detective marked his place in the book with an exaggerated expression of annoyance.

Watson frowned. “Certainly you recall Oscar Wilde. We have attended a number of his plays and enjoyed them immensely.”

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. “Hmmph, that popular rubbish. The man is no literary light.”

“My dear fellow! You bought the tickets for the last three plays! Besides, one can still be outraged on his behalf.” Watson was irritated with his friend’s lack of concern. After all Watson was himself a writer.

As the doctor had observational powers of his own, he watched Holmes pretend to read. The detective appeared unconcerned, yet a slight tremour of his eyelid indicated something was worrying him.

Holmes chewed on his pipestem, a gesture Watson knew to mean he was composing a half-truth. “Fear not, my dear Watson!“ he waved his arm dramatically. “Gentlemen of his ilk are soon rescued by family connections or fawning supporters. And the gossip mongers shall leap upon the next new scandal.” Holmes reburied his exceptional proboscis in his book.

“I don’t know, Holmes. Wilde’s dispute with the Earl of Queensbury went badly, and he is to be tried for gross indecency. While I cannot believe this of such a man, so well bred and educated, Queensbury is certainly a formidable opponent.”

The detective looked up suddenly. “Is Mrs. Hudson in?” He leapt up and donned his coat with a swirl. “I must speak with her about the state of our kitchen lighting.” He whisked out the door and down the stairs. But instead of visiting the landlady’s flat, Holmes slammed the door and strode down Baker Street.

Something odd is afoot, Watson concluded.

=========

When Holmes did not return until noon the following day, looking a bit worse for wear, Watson debated how to get the truth from his companion. He waited a while then knocked on the detective’s door.

“Come!” the voice commanded him from within. Watson entered the gloom, wondering how Holmes could stand the darkness. One small gas flame flickered on the far wall. But perhaps it was best, for the room was littered in books, papers and oddments of ‘evidence’. It was a good thing that the resident of this dark den was vain about his clothes and loathe to eat when working, or it could readily be a serious health hazard. As it was, one could surely break a leg tripping over unseen objects.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom Watson located his friend standing in the corner, smoking. “Holmes my dear fellow. Are you quite alright?”

His voice low and derisive, the detective replied, “Why, Watson, did you worry about me? I’m touched.”

“Well dear chap, actually, I did. I know you often disappear and wander the streets detecting, but we have no case at present, and I know this can make you fretful.” Watson could hear Holmes scoff and had no difficulty imagining his sneer.

“You are not my keeper, good Doctor. If I wanted your assistance with this matter, I would surely have asked ask for it.” Holmes turned away, toward the heavily curtained window as if looking out.

Watson absorbed the blow with his usual equanimity, but felt such a pang of sorrow his stomach clenched and his eyes burned. He paused long enough to allow Holmes to retract his outburst, then quietly turned to go. After the door clicked shut he walked away swiftly, missing a whispered comment from the dark corner.

=========

On that previous night Holmes strode purposefully down Victoria Embankment. The rain had lifted and a buttery glow hovered over the Thames. He increased his pace, letting his irritation push his long limbs to a faster stride. Pity the strolling couple in his path, who were jostled rudely as he brushed by them, ignoring their outrage.

Holmes had gone to Wilde’s home in an ineffectual attempt to get a message to Oscar, but was turned away by a gruff footman . “We’ll not have your kind here, sir!” The brute had nearly pushed him off the doorstep. Incensed, Holmes insisted he was there to help, but observed the burly butler arrive and offer to summon the police, and Holmes left in disgust. It would serve no one to make a scene.

The walk was not easing his fury, which was only rivaled by a rising sense of panic; two mental states he did not permit, as they interfered with rational deduction. Holmes removed his hat, slicked back his damp hair and scowled. The fools! He needed to speak to Oscar, offer his skills to help with the trial in whatever way he could. Perhaps he could discredit the prosecution’ witnesses, or find helpful evidence.

Holmes stormed along the Embankment with, amazingly, no idea what to do next. He was quite certain he would not be allowed entrance to Holloway Prison. And he was in no mood to return to Baker Street, where he would only inflict more abuse on Watson.

Dear Watson. Holmes added to his list of unacceptable emotions the pain of treating his beloved friend so poorly. He would rather die than have harm befall his Watson, yet he was so often abrupt, insulting, and even unkind, and knew that the secret he kept caused the doctor confusion and pain.

He was nearly convinced that he must never reveal himself, the risk of harming the man he loved was greater now than ever. But he burned, longed to share his heart, and his bed. For years he had allowed his desire to remain unspoken, lest it bring disgrace and ruin upon John Watson, the one man Holmes knew to be good and true. Wilde’s disastrous situation paradoxically made Holmes long to speak the truth, for one never knew how much time one had.

When Holmes had burned off his initial rage he found himself at Blackfriars Bridge, and walked out to the center to stare into the River, surging with foam and detritus from the heavy rains.

=========

He remembers too well a night like this, twenty one years ago on a bridge over the churning Cherwell.

It’s April, his first year at Oxford, and young Holmes is walking with Wilde along the river as it begins to rain. “Why, Oscar? Why did you dismiss me in front of that man, as if you did not know me? You treat me terribly!”

Wilde grumbles about ‘Nonsense’ and how ‘tediously oversensitive’ Sherlock could be. “It’s tiresome, my dear, and when you whine, your beauty is obscured.” He does not make eye contact, but looks out over the water as if surveying his domain.

A shouting match quickly escalates as the storm intensifies. The foul weather is certainly expressing their violent feelings, and affords them the privacy to have this long overdue conversation.

“You were nothing but a pretty fuck, Sherlock. Please, get over yourself.” Wilde stares at Sherlock with contempt, then turns to leave. The young Holmes grabs Wilde and forces him to turn back, to look at him. He searches his older lover’s face for recognition of what he, Sherlock, believes had passed between them. Then Wilde slaps him, hard, and the younger man staggers back against the bridge railing, stunned.

Holmes wipes his face in dismay and watches Wilde’s figure recede in the mist, the rain hiding his tears.

=========

When Sherlock came to Oxford, he believed that university life would be long days of quiet focus, like a monastery. But when he met Wilde college life exploded into a dazzling world of music, poetry, theater, brilliant conversations and decadence.  
Sherlock’s promise as a violinist flowered, for the circles Oscar introduced him into brought him the best teachers and wonderful opportunities to play. Finally he could distinguish himself as superior to his brother, the arrogant swell. Sherlock had found himself in this sensuous, creative world.

He recalled a worried Mycroft urging him to keep his distance. Sherlock mocked his elder brother. “What could you possibly know about creativity and pleasure, Mycroft?” He believed his brother to be jealous.

Surrounded by a coterie of beautiful people and ideas, romanced by an elegant and experienced man, Holmes had fallen headlong in love with his new life. Not to mention, his mentor. Sherlock lapped up the attention and praise heaped upon him for his beauty and brilliance, and he allowed Wilde to tutor him in the arts of food and wine, music and poetry, and finally, love.

Just as he had discovered his soul through music , so he awoke to his body as Oscar’s lover. Never had he appreciated his human form until now; it had only been transport, annoying when it required maintenance. No one had ever called him beautiful, never had he any reason to notice his own features, much less appreciate them. Now, the mysterious journey of love was leading him to layers of himself he had never imagined. This! This was who and what he was, what he was meant for! Now he understood his disinterest in family and children. His coldness toward people dissolved under Oscar’s skillful hand, and he shone with a new confidence. He knew who his people were, where he belonged. It was glorious.

Sherlock’s appetite for sex grew with every new experience, and he basked in Wilde’s attention. In time indulged his lover’s every decadent whim, including being shared like a lovely toy with other seniors. Sherlock would happily perform any lascivious act; laughing as they spanked him, glorying in vigorous buggery, swallowing every cock he was offered.

It was not long, however, before the bloom began to come off the rose. Endless nights of intoxication, living on sex and cigarettes, took their toll. Oscar was ever in the spotlight, and he loved shiny new things, and people. Ere long, another pretty young man captured his attention, and he cast Sherlock aside, breaking his young heart.

=========

What a fool he’d been at 18! Staring into the murky water, Holmes recalled his devastation after that moment on the bridge. He had fled the university, and taken months to recover, if recovery consisted of staying drunk for days on end, dropping nearly two stone, and ducking out of Magdalen College.

Only Mycroft’s diligent intervention allowed him to pass at University College in chemistry the following autumn. He successfully avoided any contact with Wilde’s other ‘protégés’ by spending all of his time in the labs. Only years later did he send a message to Oscar Wilde, congratulating him on the event of his marriage. He received a polite reply, inviting him to a poetry gathering. Holmes assumed the offer was insincere, and besides, had no wish to see Wilde again.

Holmes did attend most of Wilde’s plays, for Watson enjoyed them so thoroughly. Holmes much preferred the symphony hall, where he could allow his heart to soar with the strings, in sublime but private communion with his creative soul. His scratchings at the violin were all that remained of that heady first year of the artist’s life, and so that joy was always coloured with some grief for that road not taken.

Darkness had settled over the City now, and he grew cold and stiff in the chill night air. Holmes straightened up and bade farewell to the river. He knew what he had to do.

=========

“Holmes! Come out of there, man, or I am coming in to rouse you! You haven’t eaten in days and I cannot allow you to destroy yourself.”

It was the day before Wilde’s trial was to begin. Watson put his ear to the door. “Mrs. Hudson, do you approve of me forcing the door?”

Wringing her hands, Emily Hudson nodded at Dr. Watson. He heaved his shoulder against the door, popping it open.

“Holmes?” He peered into the gloom. Mrs. Hudson slipped inside and turned up the gas.

“Just look at this mess! My heavens, why do I put up with this Dr. Watson?” She darted about, attempting to restore some semblance of order. “I can’t understand why he has to have so many books, and why they cannot be shelved properly. He’s even taken to letting his clothing lie about!” She fussed as she hung up his dressing gown and folded his pyjamas.

“He’s not here.” Watson stood, holding a crumpled page of notes in his hand and watching the net curtain move in the breeze.

 =========

Watson strode quickly up Camden Road, no idea what his destination should be. He was heading toward Holloway prison, despondent and out of ideas about where to search for his friend. It began to rain, further dampening his mood. Watson tugged his cap lower and cursed himself for not bringing an umbrella. The street was dark and drear despite it being some time before sundown. He saw the glow of lamplight from a public house and gratefully ducked inside.

The King’s Head was warm and filled with the comforting scents of ale and tobacco. He shed his wet overcoat and slumped gratefully at the bar, ordering a pint. The barman looked him over carefully as he drew the foaming ale. “You one of that crowd?” he asked, nodding toward the back corner of the bar.

Watson turned to look at the men gathered there, at least a dozen clustered around a striking young gentleman with golden hair. Watson noted that they were all dressed in flamboyant and fashionable attire. Watson shook his head, no, and nursed his ale. He was uneasy about the entire scene; the Wilde situation had stirred up the public and revealed a vein of hatred of even suspected sodomites, and he wondered if it was even wise to be seen here.

Watson drained his mug and laid two pennies on the bar, concluding that trying to find Holmes was a fools errand and donned his coat, preparing to head back to Baker Street. As he shouldered his coat he was surprised when someone held it for him. He turned quickly and peered into a familiar face, albeit adorned with facial hair and a wavy brown wig.

Holmes winked at him. “Might you be a friend of Mr. Wilde, sir?” He spoke with a precise and lyrical elocution. Watson opened his mouth but no words were forthcoming. An elegant gloved hand gently lifted his jaw, his touch lingering. Watson jumped back, his retreat impeded by the bar. Holmes moved a little too close and eyed Watson with amusement. “Ah, I see that you are not. My most sincere apologies for disturbing you. I thought you were a friend of mine, but now I see that I am mistaken.” The gaze grew cold, and for the briefest of moment Holmes turned away.

“Wait!” Watson grabbed the detective’s coat sleeve, and found it strangely soft, a shimmering, deep green velvet. “I....” again the good doctor found himself at a loss for words. He looked up into the detective’s grey eyes. Holmes returned the look, steady but vivid. Watson became aware he was gazing into those eyes for far too long. A blush rose on his face but he held the gaze. “I am indeed your friend, sir,” he said quietly, his heart pounding.

“Wonderful!” Holmes declared in a loud and cheery voice. “Let us go, then and reminisce together!” With dramatic flourish swept over to the crowded table and made his farewells, then donned his overcoat. He took Watson’s elbow and steered him out of the pub, opening a great black umbrella to shield them from the rain. With his nearly supernatural ability to do so, Holmes conjured a hansom out of the rain and they gratefully climbed aboard.

Shaking out his sodden cap, Watson sighed and relaxed into the seat back. “Holmes...”

“Watson! What on earth were you doing there!” The detective was breathless, almost angry. "You must take great care who you are seen with, my dear fellow. There are terrible forces afoot in this sorry episode, I assure you.”

“So you are attempting to aide Mr. Wilde, I take it.”

Holmes nodded gravely.

“Do you, did you, are you....” Watson stuttered.

The street lamps cast their beam through the chill rain, causing a slow sweep of soft light across the face of his companion. Holmes was peeling off his false whiskers and running a hand through his raven hair, having stowed the wig. With his kerchief he wiped the facepaint away, returning to the pale and gaunt detective Watson knew and...

Holmes looked up at him, his visage cool but his gaze was warm, mouth slightly open. He raised his hand and touched his friend’s face, first feather-lightly, then more firmly, sliding a caress up his jaw. He leaned in to place his lips onto Watson’s own mouth.

 

Watson felt no need to breathe. There was no rain, no cab, no question . Only this, these lips pressing his, his own moving forward to meet them, opening like a slow soft explosion of wonder. Hands, two of them now, cradling his skull, thumbs tracing his cheekbones, tongue seeking his own he surged into the kiss until he had to gasp for air.

Watson found himself clutching the velvet lapels, and fell against Holmes’ chest, breathing in gulps. To his horror he realized he was crying, weeping real, wet, unmanly tears. Holmes held him with tender firmness until the storm had passed, then offered his kerchief. The doctor composed himself, at least as well as could be expected, and looked at his companion.

“Holmes, I must...”

The detective put his hand gently across Watson’s mouth. “My dear chap, have no fear. I shall not drag you into the darkness and dishonor of the invert life.

“Ah, we have arrived at Baker Street. You may alight, I must make one more attempt to confer with Wilde’s legal counsel.”

 “Holmes, are you mad? I am not going anywhere without you! Onward then, unless you do not wish my company?”

A shadow crossed Holmes features. “Watson, I am long compromised by my involvement in these matters. You, however, have an upright reputation to protect. If I am correct in my presumptions we are entering a dangerous time for those who do not conform, and it is preferable, indeed more strategic, if you were to maintain your good standing in respectable society.”

Watson shook his head, frustrated at his inability to express himself. “Holmes, there is no threat or danger so great that I will not stand by your side.” He gazed soberly at his beloved friend “Have I not already made that clear to you, my friend?”

Holmes leant close, whispering into his ear. “It is my fondest wish that you may find new ways to express your devotion, Doctor Watson.”

Watson blushed, heat rising from his toes to his cheeks in a sudden flare. With effort he managed to resist twin urges to flee or seize his friend for another kiss, but instead, nodded and opened the cab door, one hand trailing over his friend's.

“Please,” he breathed, “hurry home.”

“My dear Watson, there is nowhere I would rather be.”

Holmes pulled the cab door closed and thumped on the roof twice and the hansom clattered away.

=========

Watson hung his sodden coat in the hall and shook out his cap again. He sighed as he ascended the stairs, baffled by the day’s turn of events. John Watson would be the first to tell you he had never allowed the thought of intimate congress with another man into his mind. It was unthinkable. He had known of soldiers who were shot when discovered in flagrante delecto.

He feared, quite rationally he believed, that Wilde was not going to escape lightly. He already saw the press turning against the playwright. Indeed, even public outrage: his successful show was closed down, and hooligans tore the posters from the theater facade and burned them.

The terrible fate of Oscar Wilde haunted him, but so did the elegant frame and passionate gaze of his beloved detective. This was not exactly great timing. But there was not one doubt in Watson’s mind that he loved Sherlock Holmes with fierce devotion. He had killed for this man. He would die for him, certainly. John Watson marveled at how this was nothing new, yet everything was changed. He felt he had touched something forbidden, and found it not damning, but exalted.

He sighed, poured himself a brandy, and settled into his favorite chair to catch up on the Medical Journal as he waited for Holmes. As he retrieved the publication from a stack of books and papers a Magdalen College journal from 1874 fell to the carpet. As he bent to pick it up, his eye fell upon the cover photo of a beautiful young Oscar Wilde, beaming as he accepted an award. Watson smiled, and understood.


End file.
